


I Am in Need of Music

by swatkat



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Desert Island Fic, F/F, Magical Accidents, Post-The Miller's Daughter, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2017-12-07 02:30:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swatkat/pseuds/swatkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"To say all of this is Emma Swan's fault would be, in Regina's opinion, entirely accurate." </p><p>[In which Emma and Regina are stranded on a desert island and get along famously with each other. Or not.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Uh, Magic?

To say all of this is Emma Swan's fault would be, in Regina's opinion, entirely accurate.

1.

Emma is at the doorway, gun pointed at Regina's head.  
  
Beyond that door—locked and sealed; protected, no doubt, by Rumpelstiltskin's spell—is Snow White, and the final step in Regina's long, long road to salvation. And so Regina says, 'You know why I'm here, Miss Swan,' baring her teeth. Clever girl, not relying on her magic—Emma Swan is a child of this world, and bullets pierce the skin of peasants and Evil Queens alike. 'Now _move away_.'  
  
'Please stop,' Emma says, hoarse. Her aim is steady, much like her heart. 'You don't have to do this,' she says. Plaintive, as though the Savior _isn't_ ashamed to lowerherself to plead with the likes of Regina.  
  
Emma Swan, Regina thinks now, has always been a contrary creature. Had she worked this out when the curse still held, she would have perhaps—  
  
 _No_ , she tells herself. No more regrets.  
  
'This is between your mother and I,' Regina says with a sneer, 'so why don't you run along and let the grown-ups do the talking?' She takes a step closer, and another one. She briefly considers transporting her to another place—the forest, perhaps, or in the middle of the lake—but Regina's magic is unpredictable around Emma, and there's no telling where it'll lead them again. This is not the day for traveling new worlds.  
  
Emma's arm does not waver, even as her face crumples and she says, 'What will I tell Henry?'  
  
Another step, and the barrel of the gun is cool on her forehead.  
  
'The truth, Miss Swan. Tell him that the Evil Queen had her vengeance,' Regina says, 'Just like in his book.' Her foolish heart clenches at the thought of his face. She'd meant to shield him from the world, always, but her son has chosen the truth instead and there's no turning away from that now: she _is_ the evil she'd hoped Henry would never know.  
  
'You know I can't let you do that,' Emma says simply. 'That's why I'm asking you to stop.'  
  
'Do this, then,' Regina tells her, gesturing at the gun still pressed onto her forehead, noting the way Emma's eyes widen. 'Because that's the only way you'll get me to stop pursuing Snow White.'  
  
'Regina, I—'  
  
A moment's hesitation; a window of opportunity. For all her bounty-hunting ways, Emma is still too easily taken—or perhaps it's the company she now keeps, Regina thinks darkly, her mind flashing back to Rumpelstiltskin's no good lout of a son—and in minute Regina has her backed up against the wall, one hand wrapped around her delicate throat.  
  
Of course, Emma Swan isn't one to back down without a fight, and so the barrel of the gun comes to rest painfully hard against Regina's windpipe.  
  
'I'm sure you've been tempted,' Regina tells her, voice now lowered to a silken purr. Emma's eyes are impossibly wide, and Regina gives in to whimsy—presses forth until their lips brush, oh-so-lightly. 'Haven't you?' Regina says, smiling.  
  
It's an act designed to shock and disarm, and so Regina isn't quite prepared for the way Emma moves, no, lunges forward, capturing her lips in a bruising kiss. An ambush, Regina thinks, plain and simple, the gun jammed awkwardly against her cheek and an impossibly obstinate Emma Swan stealing her breath.  
  
'I've been tempted to do a lot of things,' Emma tells her when they part for air, 'and now I'm asking you to stop because I'm _tired_ of all this. So is Henry. He deserves better than this, we all do.' She looks at Regina with shining eyes, so earnest and hopeful that Regina cannot _stand_ it.  
  
'And what would you have me do, Miss Swan?' Regina snaps, 'Hold hands with your parents and sing paeans to peace?' Her lips still tingle with Emma's kiss, and that must be why she doesn't dismiss her outright. Regina has been ambushed, ensnared, trapped by Emma Swan's underhanded ploy—she is, understandably, a little disoriented.  
  
'Just sign the truce,' Emma says. 'They'll leave you alone. I'll see to it that they do.'  
  
Truce is surrender, Regina wants to say; truce is sitting down like an obedient canine and waiting for morsels from the mistress' plate.  
  
Regina has had enough crumbs to last her an entire lifetime.  
  
'You can do whatever you want. You can go wherever you want,' Emma urges, fingers digging into Regina's forearm. 'You can—' _Love again_ , she can almost hear Daniel say, before Emma swoops in for another breath-stealing kiss. 'A fresh start,' Emma says when they break apart again, cheeks pink in a way that's not entirely unbecoming. For one so inarticulate on the whole, Emma Swan sure knows how to put forth an effective sales pitch.  
  
Effective, and almost entirely unworkable.  
  
The truth is banal in its utter plainness: Regina has waded too far down her path of rage and vengeance to even contemplate a turnaround of some sort anymore. She's certain, should she attempt a return, the route would be as tedious as the one she's followed up until this point.  
  
And besides, the only thing she wants in this world—however unattainable, now—is right here in Storybrooke. Where else would she go?  
  
'That's all very... _charming_ , dear,' Regina says, breathier than she'd like to admit, 'but you and I both know how this is going to end.' Her head on a pike. Or—  
  
'It will end the way we want it to end,' Emma says, taking hold of Regina's other arm in an inelegant grip, not letting go of her gun. 'Listento me.'  
  
She sounds like her son when he's trying to convince her of something that's _really, really important, Mom, you have to pay attention!_ , and that is almost certainly why Regina allows herself to look into Emma Swan's eyes and what she sees there is—  
  
Light, blinding and white, swallowing her whole while the ground beneath her feet is begins to give way, split apart and then her magic begins to surge and she's falling, falling—

+

'Regina?'  
  
Someone has taken hold of her shoulder and is vigorously shaking her back and forth. Regina ignores it, keeping her eyes resolutely shut even as the voice grows more insistent, 'Regina? Come on. _Regina_. _Wake up!_ '  
  
The voice is grating and all-too-familiar. _Emma Swan_ , her mind—still foggy—supplies, and she reaches out to wrap her fingers around the hand that continues to manhandle her like a child with a ragdoll. 'Stop it,' she says, hoarse.  
  
'Oh thank god you're awake,' Emma says. She looks, when Regina can finally make herself open her eyes, oddly relieved.  
  
'I'm afraid it'll take a lot more than youto get rid of me, Miss Swan,' Regina says, caustic, disregarding the way Emma's face falls at her comment. Emma Swan is Snow White's daughter— _caring_ , she supposes, comes with the territory. It baffles Regina; always has, even if she is grateful that her son has inherited some of that generosity of spirit. It means that he might someday look on her memory with something other than fear or disgust.  
  
She stretches her limbs, noting the way her back protests and her bare arm brushes against what feels like...coarse sand?  
  
She sits up abruptly, then, taking in her surroundings that look nothing like Storybrooke: sand, endless sand, a few rocks here and there, and beyond that, the sea.  
  
Regina gapes. She suspects her mouth falls open at some point, like one of Henry's ridiculous cartoon characters, but for once she is too aghast to bring herself to care about such gracelessness on her part.  
  
Beside her, Emma Swan clears her throat. 'About that—'  
  
'What did you _do_ , Miss Swan?' Regina turns to her, furious.  
  
'Uh, magic?' Emma appears vaguely sheepish.

++


	2. Bothered and Bewildered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They talk a lot.

2.  


'We could be anywhere, Miss Swan,' Regina says, ' _Anywhere_.' Her voice has taken on a slightly hysterical edge—a sure sign of impending loss of control that she would ruthlessly clamp down upon on any other day. 'Do you understand what that means?'

Any other day that did not involve being spirited away to what appears to be a deserted beach by none other than the incorrigible daughter of her nemesis, Emma Swan.

The situation, one might say, _demands_ a less than rational response.

'Look, Regina,' Emma tells her, petulant, 'hanging out with you on a desert island isn't my idea of a vacation either. It just happened, okay?'

 _'It just happened?_ ' Regina says, incredulous. 'Is that all you have to say in your defense? _Just happened?_ '

'Yes!' Emma says, her voice rising a notch. 'I was just trying to get you to stop and listen to me, and... my magic got away from me, I guess.' She runs a hand through the tangled mop on her head. 'I didn't do it on purpose.'

'I realize your upbringing left a lot to be desired, but surely even _you_ know better than to play with things that are beyond your grasp, dear,' Regina sneers.

Emma's face falls, like Regina knew it would—she has had a lifetime to perfect the art of wounding her enemies with mere words, after all.

It does not make her feel any more in control of the situation.

'In case you have forgotten, _Your Majesty_ , I was trying to stop you from murdering my mother—your son's grandmother—in the course of yet another one of your temper tantrums,' Emma says, her voice hard. The title—so very hollow, now—sounds like a curse when it falls from her lips, and Regina recoils from it, stung. 'So yeah, I didn't do it on purpose, but I'd do it again if it meant saving my mother's life and your sorry ass in the process.' She glares at Regina, hands on her hips, eyes burning with righteous fury.

Emma Swan gives as good as she gets. Regina has known this ever since the day she showed up at her yard with a chainsaw and proceeded to vandalize her beloved apple tree.

More dangerous than the chainsaw, or indeed, any weapon known to man, is the way Emma wields the truth—plain, unvarnished, and ruthless in its simplicity. The outraged _how dare you_ dies in her throat, and all Regina is left with is a wordless nod of her head and a quick retreat; some time to clear her addled mind.

+

  
'Are you done sulking?'

She's not certain how long she has been sitting here, staring at the mocking waves.

Long enough to watch the sea swallow the blazing orange sun and the sky turn into a myriad hues of red and gold.

'I do not sulk,' Regina says stiffly, not looking away from the waves.

'Sure you don't,' Emma tells her, planting herself on the ground beside Regina with an ungainly thud. 'You brood.'

She does look at Emma then, noting the slight smirk playing at the corner of her lips. She is being laughed at, Regina realizes, but there's something about the playful arch of Emma's eyebrows that's not entirely unpleasant.

It's as though their previous standoff never even happened. It astonishes Regina, the way Emma is able to glide from one moment to another, furious at one instant and playful in the very next, displaying an astounding grace that she otherwise so lacks in. Looking beyond her own rage is not a skill Regina has ever quite mastered herself.

It doesn't really change anything, either, this, this act of _mercy_ , or whatever it is that prompted Emma to let things be for now. The truth is still out there, and Regina will always be one step away from falling, taking Henry's happiness along with her into the abyss.

'You figure out anything about this place yet?' Emma says, jolting her out of her increasingly dark reverie. 'Because I'd really like to go home and take a long shower. And a drink. Or five.'

No more than it has magic, and that can only mean one thing.

'We're in Bizarro World? _Again_?'

'Another realm, dear,' Regina corrects. 'Like your world, and the one that your parents and I left behind.'

'And I did it? By myself?' Emma says, sounding painfully like Henry would when he was very young.

'It would appear so,' Regina nods. 'You are the product of powerful magic. It seems the combination of your magic with mine managed to open yet another portal between realms.'

Emma makes a sound that is akin to being strangled.

'I imagine that little trinket of yours,' Regina points, causing Emma to stop fidgeting and stare at the bracelet on her wrist as though she's being burned, 'had something to do with it.'

'Neal gave it to me,' she says slowly, 'I—'

' _Baelfire_ ,' Regina says, 'has spent a lifetime travelling between realms. Are you truly surprised, Miss Swan?'

Emma places her head between her hands in response and groans.

They watch the waves in silence after that.

'At least this place is pretty, huh?' Emma says after a while.

'You talk too much, Miss Swan,' Regina says.

  
+

  
It is a world rife with magic, that much is certain. Regina meets with none of the difficulties she occasionally has with her magic in Storybrooke—it's gratifying.

At the same time, it's frustrating, because all of this realm's magic appears unable to recreate the spell that brought them here, a spell powerful enough to rupture boundaries between realms without so much as a minor casualty.

After the fifth or so attempt, Regina finds herself being briefly levitated off the ground before they none-so-gently crash back down on the coarse sand. Emma slumps against Regina's frame, bringing to rest her forehead on Regina's shoulder in an oddly intimate gesture. 'Sorry,' she mumbles, 'I didn't mean to—This is really hard. Magic stuff.'

Regina holds herself very still, trying not to breathe in Emma's scent. The memory of their frantic kisses is still fresh on her lips. 'You're very likely exhausted from expanding so much energy on the spell before,' she tells Emma. She does not pull away.

'Yeah, well, I feel like I've been hit by a truck,' Emma chuckles against her exposed clavicle. 'Gold said I have to channel my emotions to fuel my magic, but I think I'm all emotioned out for the day.'

The rage that courses through Regina's veins is sudden and white hot, and she does pull away sharply, ignoring the small sound of protest that comes out of Emma's throat at the loss of contact.

'You've been talking to _Gold_ about your magic? Are you so singularly incapable of intelligent thought, Miss Swan?' Regina says, scrambling to her feet. The thought of Gold distorting and corrupting Emma's magic to his own sweet will, leaving it to Henry to the pay the price for the same, is nauseating.

'Woah, there's no need to hyperventilate!' Emma sounds a little alarmed. 'I haven't become the Dark One's apprentice or something. He just taught me how to use a protection spell when you and your mother were on the warpath. And that time when he helped me draw Pongo's memories—' she trails off, a small scowl on her face.

'To accuse me of a crime I didn't commit, you mean,' Regina says.

Something ugly twists inside Regina at the memory of Snow White and Emma Swan at her doorstep, and the dark, dark days that followed after.

'Look,' Emma begins to say, 'I know it was a bad idea. I didn't have an option at that time, okay? It's not like I could ask _you_ ,' she finishes, jabbing an accusing finger in Regina's general direction.

For the second time that day, Regina finds herself without an appropriate retort, in spite of being infinitely more articulate than her opponent on any given day.

There is an oppressive weight inside her chest, like an iron fist—her mother's—reaching inside and toying with her heart, before it closes down and crushes her heart to dust.

' _Stay away from me_ ,' she says and stalks away, ignoring the way her heels dig into the sand.

  



	3. Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please **note** that this chapter contains some morbid imagery.

3.

Emma is stretched out underneath a large palm tree when Regina makes her way back to the beach. Her hands are clasped behind her head; her mouth falling open in a manner that makes her look utterly ridiculous. 

It makes her look utterly comfortable, as though she _is_ on some exotic vacation, without a care in the world. 

She does not rouse when Regina comes to sit beside her on the sand, and Regina cannot help the stab of annoyance that courses through her at that. 

The island, from what little she has seen of it, is filled to the brim with magical energy, magic of a sort she cannot quite place or define. Old magic, as ancient as the forests—it makes Regina uneasy, restless. It is unfathomable that Emma does not feel it too, that she can simply lie down and _sleep_ when Regina feels like she's on the brink of a vast chasm, waiting, simply, to be pulled down. 

For a woman who has spent most of her adult life pursuing a variety of dangerous criminals, Emma Swan is appallingly incautious. 

'Eat,' she hears a sleeprough voice say, after a moment or maybe a lifetime of staring at the phosphorescent glow on the waves. Time, Regina is beginning to suspect, moves differently in this island; there is a texture to it she cannot put her finger upon. 

A misshapen granola bar is thrust into her palm. 'We have to eat,' Emma mumbles before flopping back onto the sand again, one hand coming up to cover her eyes. 

'There's a small stream nearby that should provide adequate water supply,' Regina tells her. 

A vague 'mmhmm' is all she receives in reply. 

After a while, Regina puts up a protective barrier around herself and Emma, invisible to all but the most powerful magical eye. It surrounds them like a shimmering canopy, its faint blue glow adding a strange tint to the night sky. Emma's curls are silver in the dim light. For a moment it is not too difficult to imagine who she might have been had she grown up in their realm, the spoiled, cherished daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming, loved by peasants and small woodland creatures alike. 

Regina does not sleep.

+

Watching Emma Swan wake up in the morning is a vastly amusing experience. 

She shifts and fidgets and thrashes about, as though desperately clinging on to the last vestiges of slumber. 'Jesus,' she says finally, voice thick with sleep, 'what _is_ that racket?'

'They're called birds, dear,' Regina supplies sweetly. She's watched them gather all morning, flitting about the rocks and tufts of beachgrass, singing a rousing serenade to the rising sun. 'Gulls, by the looks of them. You'll have to ask your mother if you wish for more accurate information.' Regina has never particularly cared for birds. 

'They're giving me a headache,' Emma says, covering her eyes with both hands. 'Does she really sing to them?' she says after a moment's silence, and Regina cannot help but chuckle. 

'Yes,' Regina says. 'I'm told it's very moving.'

'God, I need coffee,' Emma groans pitifully. 

She's very much of the world she grew up in when she's like this—cranky, coarse, oh-so- _mundane_ , in spite of the powerful magic she harbors within her. Regina isn't certain if she should find it so reassuring. 

'Get up,' she tells Emma, curt. 'The sooner we get to Storybrooke, the sooner you can drink your coffee.'

+

They don't get to Storybrooke. They don't get anywhere at all, in fact, except a few feet above ground. 

Regina insists—after a breakfast consisting of coconuts and berries that has Emma complaining about 'rabbit food'—that they try, yet again, paying no heed to Emma's hesitation. 

This time, she's braced for the fall, and scrambles away quickly, before there can be any further... _distraction_.

Emma, for her part, says, 'This isn't gonna work,' shoulders slumped in uncharacteristic gloom. 'I'm not... some magical genius or something. The only time my magic actually worked is when Gold whammied me somehow to get me to do what he wanted, I guess.'

It takes all her self-control to bite back the words on the tip of her tongue. _She_ has witnessed Emma's ability. She has felt Emma's magic in her very bones, and no trick of Gold's could conjure _that_ sensation. 

There isn't very much left for her in Storybrooke, now, but she has made promises to her son: the very first time that she held him in her arms, to cherish him, always; to give him every bit of the happiness he deserves. 

A few months ago, she made another promise: to bring Emma Swan back safely from the ravaged world she had left behind. It made Henry happy and it took him away from her, further and further until there was only grief, unrelenting; dark, and drear. 

She'll never not fight for her son's happiness. 

'We'll find a way,' she tells Emma, her voice hard. 

+

They set out on reconnaissance, as Emma insists on calling it, keeping close to the shore. The broad daylight and the chattering company of birds contribute to her increasing ease, despite her awareness of a magical... presence tugging at her own magic. 

They walk in relative silence, taking in the shifting landscape: now a harsh, rocky patch; now vast tracts of undulating sand. In places, the sea curves curious shapes in the sand; Emma takes off her boots and pads along barefoot, ignoring Regina's glare. 

It sets her teeth on the edge, this unflagging good cheer Emma has no doubt inherited from her insufferable parents. She herself has long since transformed her heels into something more manageable, but Emma doesn't just _manage_. Gone is her earlier misery over failing to harness her magic—Emma splashes water with her bare feet and tugs at the beachgrass where it grows, her hair fluttering in the gentle breeze. Any moment now, the seagulls will join her in merry song, and Regina will find herself giving in to the rising urge to strangle Emma. 

'Pay attention,' she snaps finally, when Emma bends down to investigate a seashell. 'You would do well to remember that we're not on a vacation, Miss Swan.'

'I wouldn't be here with _you_ if we were,' Emma retorts. 'You're zero fun.'

'We're not here to—'

'Have fun, I know. I haven't forgotten,' Emma says, sullen. 'I just like beaches, okay? Even the creepy ones.'

Regina forgets to respond when her eye catches the glint of white at a distance. 

For a moment there's no sound but the familiar push-and-pull of the waves. 

'Is that... a skeleton?' Emma says at last, her voice small. 

Regina nods, drawing closer in spite of herself. 'A pirate,' she concludes, noting the large hat and the still-filled bottle of cheap pirate rum that flanks it. 'I'm not sure how long it has been here.'

'D'you think he was killed?' Emma squints, as though searching for clues in its grotesque grin. 

'It's a possibility,' Regina says. She cannot tear her eyes away from the bleached-white bones. 'It could mean that there are others around.'

'Or—'

'He could have died of natural causes,' Regina says. Marooned, perhaps; alone and friendless—as befits pirates and the Evil Queens of the world. 'I couldn't tell,' she says with a shrug. 

'Fuck,' Emma breathes, and for once Regina is inclined to agree.

+

Emma is adamant about digging a grave. 

Regina, of course, refuses to participate in such absurdity, and so she stands by and watches while Emma laboriously drags the pirate's skeleton into the shallow pit she's prepared and covers it with sand. 

Then, in a sentimental gesture that can only come from Snow White's offspring, Emma places the ratty pirate hat on the small mound and offers it a brief, playful salute. 

Their walk backwards is somber. Emma presses forward with steady steps and a steely gaze, and Regina says, 'You didn't have to do it,' only because she cannot contain herself anymore. 

'Giving him some dignity, that's all,' Emma says, staring straight ahead into the horizon, where the sea meets the sky. 

'He was a pirate,' Regina has to point out. 

'No one should have to die like that,' Emma says simply.

+

At night, Emma pulls out the bottle of rum Regina didn't know she'd kept and seats herself far too close to the waves.  


'Of course you filched the alcohol,' Regina tells her, even as she finds herself occupying a spot right next to Emma, their shoulders nearly touching. 'Why am I not surprised?'  


'I was a thief, Madam Mayor,' Emma says with a quick grin. 'Old habits die hard.'  


At this distance, the sea is less threatening, somehow; the waves almost pleasant as they draw close and pull away. When Emma passes the bottle she takes a swig without thought, wincing at the burn that goes all the way down to her toes.  


'I miss Henry,' Emma says, wistful.

Regina takes another swig, tasting the bitter aftermath.

It's easy to allow Emma to press her onto the sand afterwards, lips coming together in desperate need. Emma tastes of salt and cheap rum, and Regina's hands wander on their own accord, reveling in silken skin and the soft press of her breasts.

They fall into a rhythm as natural as the endless sea. The sand is coarse against her back and Emma's lips are none too gentle, and when Regina closes her eyes all she sees are the white waves.

+++

  



	4. Nobody comes, nobody goes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that I've managed to figure out how to insert line breaks in ff.net, I'll upload this on both archives.

4.

Things fall into a pattern over the next few days.

Time keeps slipping away from her, and Regina takes to marking the days on a tree-trunk, ignoring the tongue-in-cheek jabs from Emma about her actual age. There's little use denying that with every fresh scratch on her makeshift calendar, Regina feels the years weighing down upon her, reminding her just how far she has strayed from the path she'd set for herself when she was still a girl: a full life, surrounded by warm faces and family; a life of freedom and choices she would never, ever regret making.

Things fall into a pattern. Regina has known patterns. If it weren't for the loud, grating company of Emma Swan, it would be no different than her life in Leopold's castle, going through the motions and waiting for something, _anything_ to happen. No different, indeed, than the twenty-eight years in Storybrooke—that is, before Emma showed up and changed her life forever.

They make do with more rabbit food, Emma's demands for a magically-produced banquet notwithstanding. It's amusing—Regina will admit this—watching Emma Swan grimace every time Regina hands her a piece of coconut or a poorly-roasted fish.

'But Henry said you made him a cupcake out of thin air,' Emma pouts, more stubborn child than woman in moments such as these. 

'Not thin air,' Regina corrects. 'Mrs. Potts' bakery. I merely relocated what was already there.'

'And then took the credit,' Emma mutters. 'Of course you did.'

'It's what I do, dear,' Regina says, unrepentant.

Things fall into a pattern and Regina somehow manages, trying not to snap as Emma tries and fails, no closer to recapturing the magic that brought them here than she was the first time Regina asked her to focus and _try_.

Each day here takes her a step away from Henry.

Regina can almost taste his disappointment, nourished and fostered by Snow White and her idiot husband as they fawn over him and feed him ignorant half-truths.

It wasn't supposed to be this way, she thinks, bitter. Regina had meant to settle scores: once and for all, Snow White or the Evil Queen.

'You'll have to keep trying,' she insists, every time, not saying the acrid words that rise in her throat.

She's still alive and here on this world. She has to explain herself to her son, and hope that this time he will listen.

'It won't work,' Emma says. 'I'm no good at this.'

'You did it once,' Regina tells her. 'You can do it again.'

'Then _show me how_ ,' Emma retorts. 'Stop telling me what to do and _teach_ me!'

And that is a responsibility Regina will not bear, even though temptation grows stronger with each passing day—to reach out with her magic and shape her and mould her, all that untapped potential within her fell grasp.

Regina has dealt in the darkest of magicks, and _that_ is knowledge she'll carry to her grave—her funeral pyre, if they burn her at the stake, or perhaps some dark pit in the ocean reserved for evil witches such as herself.

Things fall into a pattern and Regina clings to it, finding odd solace in the manner they come together in the long, decadent evenings, when the sun has set and they're huddled by the sea. They grasp at each other, uncaring of niceties, uncaring of the harsh marks they leave upon each other's skin. Emma Swan, like this, is nature unleashed, and Regina cannot but let herself have this.

Some evenings are colder than others, and Emma lights a fire with inexpert hands before pulling Regina close.

In the soft glow of firelight, Emma Swan is breathtaking. She looks younger in the half-light and shadows, somehow; less jaded by the world, perhaps, like the young woman Regina never met. That young woman blessed her with Henry—although by what trick of fate or the infinite powers that run the universe Regina cannot say—and for that Regina is forever in her debt, a gift she can only thank her for now with her lips as they devour every inch of bare skin, tasting salt and sweetness and _Emma_. Her wayward fingers trace and caress the flat plane of Emma's stomach, dip lower, lower, until her fingers curl upwards and Emma is left gasping and clutching at her back.

Things fall into a pattern.

+

It's Emma who snaps first.

Regina cannot say she didn't expect it, having taught herself the ways of this infuriating woman. Biding her time isn't Emma's forte—Regina certainly has not missed the strained expression she wears on occasion, or the way she will at times wade into the water, letting the waves crash into her while she stares at the horizon.

Still, on the seventh or the ninth day, when Emma fishes out a dagger—the pirate's dagger, Regina realizes with a flash of irritation—and begins to tear off stripes of the bark of a nearby tree, Regina has to ask, 'What are you doing?'

'What does it look like?' Emma tells her.

'It looks like you're vandalizing a tree. Yet again,' Regina says. 'Tell me, Miss Swan, what is it that you have against plant life? Or is it some sort of a condition that I don't know about?' Her beloved apple tree has healed well, but there's no reason why Regina should let it slide, not when opportunity has presented itself in the shape of slightly unhinged behavior on the part of Emma Swan. 

'We can't sit on this beach forever!' Emma says, turning to face Regina so that she can see the manic gleam in her eyes. 'We have to do something! Maybe head into the forest to see if there's something in there.'

'I agree,' Regina says slowly. 'I'm not sure what that poor tree has to do with it.'

She knows they will have to venture into the forest—has known this ever since she felt the island's magic pull at her, asking for, no, _demanding_ her attention.

'We need weapons. We don't know what's in there and my gun is not enough,' Emma says, defiant.

'Need I remind you that we have magic at our disposal?' Regina says, raising an eyebrow.

'You have magic at your disposal, Regina. I have jack,' Emma says, crossing her arms and looking away.

And there it is: the source of Emma's discontent.

Regina remembers this feeling, the sheer sense of powerlessness that comes with it. 'You'll have to be more patient with yourself,' she tells Emma, softer, perhaps, than she intended. 'Magic is... a difficult beast to master. Sometimes, when you're trying your best, it will elude you and slip out of your grasp on purpose. You cannot let yourself be frustrated, because nothing good will come out of it.' It isn't her duty to reassure Emma, but it won't do to have her fly off the handle, not when she's Regina's only companion in this godforsaken place.

Emma's stare hovers between hope and disbelief. 'You talk about magic like it has a mind of its own.'

'It does,' Regina says simply. 'That's why it always comes with a price.'

'I guess,' Emma says with a shrug. 'I'm using that as an excuse the next time I fail to teleport us back to Storybrooke.' Emma's grin is bright and sudden, her gloom dissipating just like that. Her gaze drops to Regina's lips in a manner that makes her feel hot all over.

'You'll keep trying,' Regina says, stern, hoping her blush does not give her away.

+

Emma ends up fashioning a bow: a crude little thing that appears as though it will fall apart at the first attempt at usage.

The arrows are even more pathetic, but Emma appears inordinately pleased with herself. Less likely to throw another tantrum, at least, and Regina is not about to stare a gift horse in the mouth.

'Did you learn that at the Enchanted Forest?' she asks, unable to hold back her interest.

'Yes, Mulan taught me,' Emma says. 'And Mary Margaret. I mean, Snow. She's pretty good at it.' She looks down at her feet, then, almost shy.

It's probably the only lesson Snow White _has_ taught Emma, Regina thinks, and somehow she cannot bring herself to begrudge her that.

When Henry was little she taught him many things—his first words, how to walk and use to the toilet, to call her 'Mommy' and kiss her goodnight—but now she thinks there's only one lesson he'll truly remember as hers, the one lesson she never meant for her precious little boy to learn. It's the truth, awful: your parents will let you down.

+

She dreams of white bones and white sand and awakens with a gasp.

Emma is fast asleep, a hand thrown lightly across Regina's shoulder. It's a clear night, the stars painted a shimmery blue by the barrier Regina unfailingly puts up every night. It's unlikely to hold up against a powerful magical enemy, but it offers Regina a measure of comfort and allows her some sleep—there's something to be said for that.

She dislodges Emma's arm, cautious, and, out of an impulse she cannot explain, pads barefoot in the cool sand until the ground beneath her feet begins to shift and give way.

In all her time in this island, she hasn't really allowed herself this, the seawater coming up to her ankles and her bare feet digging into the earth with every push and pull of the waves. It's calming, somehow.

From her vantage point, the night sky is a dark canvas lit up with stars.

'Where'd you go?' Emma says when Regina returns to her spot beside her, blinking sleepily at Regina.

'Nowhere,' Regina says, brushing a gentle hand on Emma's back.

++++


	5. Less demonstrative birds

5.

Morning comes with a curtain of mist and an eerie calm, one that fills Regina with a strange sense of foreboding. Not a leaf moves; not one seagull is to be spotted anywhere in the vicinity, as though they have all conspired and flown away together on this very day for more pleasant shores, leaving her stranded in the company of Emma Swan.

Who says, her eyes awed and owl-wide, 'Woah. What the hell happened?'

And Regina should find it less endearing, so she simply says, 'A shift in weather patterns, evidently. Quite possibly of a magical origin.'

Emma's eyes grow even wider, much like in one of Henry's cartoons. 'How's that even possible?'

How a being so imbued with powerful magic as Emma Swan can be so oblivious to the magic that surrounds them—magic that has tugged at and tormented Regina since the moment she set foot on this island—is beyond Regina, but then again Emma has always been adamantly _rational_ , determined to stick to the standards of normalcy of the world without magic she grew up in. It's a trait that Regina once exploited to the hilt, back when she was still scrambling to protect the curse that was unraveling with every breath.

'Are there magic-users in this island? As in, actual people?' Emma sounds a little breathless, now, one hand reaching out to grip the hilt of her gun, as though for comfort.

'I doubt it,' Regina says, pursing her lips. 'The island has its own magic. Surely you must have felt it by now?'

'I...' Emma opens her mouth, and closes it again. 'I might've,' she says after a long silence, lowering her eyes as though embarrassed with the admission. 'I didn't really think about it.'

'It's probably for the best,' Regina says, flashing Emma an unapologetic grin. 'Thinking's not your forte, dear.'

Emma flushes a shade of rather appealing crimson, but does not belabor the point. 'So what do we do now?' she says, her face open and honest. A little nervous, and wholly trusting. 'Sit around some more until the freaky magical mist disappears?'

Not so long ago, Regina was determined to kill Emma's mother and destroy her family, her happiness, and yet here Emma is, trusting Regina to take the right decision.

Her hand reaches out on its own volition to take hold of Emma's wrist—a gesture meant to restore confidence. As though she has any business offering comfort to Emma Swan.

'We head into the forest,' Regina says.

+

Inside the forest, it's oddly quiet, except for the gurgling sounds of the small stream they've chosen to follow so as to not lose their way completely. The mist that surrounds them is thick and unrelenting. It's unnerving, in a way the Enchanted Forest never seemed to be. There was a small woodland creature at every step, waiting to sing paeans to Snow White and her goodness; werewolves and trolls, thugs and vagabonds, outlaws of every stripe.

The Enchanted Forest was full of life, and yet never quite so unsettlingly _alive_.

Even Emma picks up on it, and says, 'Is it just me or is this place really creepy? I mean, even by the usual fairytale creepy standards?'

'You don't know very much about fairytales, do you, dear?'

'I know enough,' Emma mutters. 'I just wish there were some birds or animals or _something_ in here.' She stomps her foot in a manner that befitted Henry when he was five.

They could have, perhaps, waited for some more time. Wait for the mist to dissipate—if at all—or for some miraculous rescue mission lead by none other than Snow White and her dear husband, come to liberate their daughter from the clutches of the Evil Queen.

There will be tears shed, no doubt; long, overly-saccharine speeches about finding their precious family, forever and always. And then Regina will be left here to rot, with the dead pirate for company and his bones her future.

The thought leaves her unaccountably angry, and she finds herself nearly stumbling, only to be held upright by Emma Swan's arms around her.

Emma's breath is hot on her skin. 'Not used to roughing it, Your Majesty?'

It's more of a jest when Emma uses her title like this—a jest Regina has allowed and grown used to, even. Emma's weight against her is warm and reassuring.

'I was Queen, dear. I had little reason to "rough it", as you say,' Regina says, breathier than she intended.

'Yes, and twenty-eight years behind a desk in Storybrooke doesn't do much for your stamina either,' Emma says, flirtatious in a way that should infuriate Regina—they cannot lose focus, not now—but only serves to make her shiver.

She turns around to face Emma and says, 'I didn't hear you complaining, Miss Swan', feeling oddly lightheaded.

They do not do this in daylight, ever, and Regina should push her away and concentrate on not losing their way, but Emma's lips are soft and full and she kisses like she does everything else, cocksure and _easy_. The mist is a curtain around them, blurring everything but Emma's presence. A leg finds a way between Regina's thighs and Emma's steady arms are still holding her upright.

+

She pulls away at the first screech: sudden, sharp, _terrifying_.

'What the hell was that?' Emma says, trying to catch her breath. The screeching grows louder, and is joined by another one. 'Regina?'

'Company,' Regina says simply. 'We need to find cover.'

It's easier said than done in a landscape that's largely dominated by flat grass and the occasional rock formation, only half-visible in the lingering haze.

They run, simply, Emma's fingers digging into Regina's forearm. 'What the hell is it?' Emma shouts over the cacophony. 'Are those some sort of winged monsters?'

'Birds, to be precise,' Regina tells her, panting. 'Birds of prey.'

'And they just _had_ to show up after all this while,' Emma says. 'That's just great!' The sound of wings draws closer and closer.

The first glance of the creature—a clawed foot, accompanied by another piercing shriek—is enough to petrify, but Regina manages just enough common sense to blast it backwards with a wave of magic.

'Would it be too much to expect _vegetarian_ monsters for a change?' Emma quips, but she's already reaching for her gun.

A vast white shape, indistinct in the mist; the flapping of powerful wings. 'Are you seriously pointing a gun at a mythical bird of prey?' Regina says, sending forth another quick blast at the creature with all her magical might. Its companion, however, proves even quicker, and Regina ducks just in time to barely avoid a set of sharp claws.

'Yeah, I'm not too good with those arrows,' Emma says. And then she whistles.

Emma Swan points her gun and _whistles_ at the monstrous bird of prey currently attempting to _kill_ them.

Regina follows instinct, shielding Emma with her own body while the creature swoops down, ignoring Emma's loud 'Hey! _Regina_!' And then she's going up, up, gripped by sharp talons that dig into her skin, and her heart nearly beats out of her chest at the familiarity of the sensation.

She thinks she hears Emma call out her name again, but the beating of wings and the wind rushing past her ears makes it impossible to tell.

She should be beyond this by now, Regina knows this. She's certainly lived long enough and caused enough harm on her own accord to be burdened by an antique damage, one that happened to a girl who died long, long ago. And still she finds herself frozen, helpless, as the creature flies higher and higher, Emma's small figure on ground dissolving in the mist.

She closes her eyes to ward off the wave of oncoming nausea.

If there's no escaping this, she'll die without making a mess of herself in the process. Like the Queen she once was, her head held high—secure in the knowledge that her son will still have Emma to look after him.

A shot rings out, then, and another one; a screech, terrible. There's blood and feathers all over her and then she's falling, falling, barely scrounging enough magic together to soften her landing somewhat.

+

Emma is peering over her when Regina resurfaces, her lips drawn together in a thin, sharp line.

Regina aches all over, but she's still breathing.

There are bandages on her arms and shoulders and a roof over her head. 'You managed to find cover,' she rasps, coughing a little in the process.

She is grateful for the bottle—still smelling of cheap pirate rum—when Emma holds it to her lips, gulping down the cool water at one go. 'How long was I unconscious?' she says.

'Long enough,' Emma says, her voice low and hard. 'Has anyone ever told you how incredibly _stupid_ you are at times?'

'My _stupidity_ saved your life, Miss Swan,' Regina can't help but bristle. It was certainly not noble _self-sacrifice_ that pushed her to shield Emma while she _whistled_ , but simple pragmatism.

'I had it covered!' Emma insists.

'I'm sure you did, dear,' Regina tells her, in a tone that leaves little doubt about the sincerity of her statement.

'You're not this reckless,' Emma continues, eyebrows knit together in a thunderous scowl. 'Are you getting sloppy?'

'Must be the company I'm keeping,' Regina says, as superior as she can manage given her current disadvantageous position on the floor of what appears to be a cave.

'Look, I promised Henry that I wouldn't let anything happen to you,' Emma says. Her voice goes up an octave, making Regina wince. Her head hurts. 'I _will not_ explain to my son why I stood by and watched while his mom let herself get eaten by giant evil birds from some Hitchcock movie. I will _not_ take that responsibility, do you _understand_?' She appears far more distressed than she has any reason to be.

'There's no need to overreact,' Regina says mildly. 'You are important to Henry. You always will be.'

The truth, again, is rather straightforward: Emma's life is important to her son, perhaps far more than Regina's own might be right now.

It's a bitter pill to swallow, certainly. Even in her darkest hours, Regina has never doubted that she deserves to be _happy_. She has fought tooth and nail and clung on to her life like a true zealot, even when perhaps letting go would be far simpler. But now, here, she is no longer certain if it's anywhere near her grasp anymore, and if Henry's happiness is easier to obtain then that's what she will fight for, even if it means sacrificing her pride.

Emma, however, looks at her as though she has just sprouted three heads, and Regina feels compelled to explain. 'I told him, when you were in were in our realm, that I'd help you find a way back. It made him happy. Henry deserves to be happy.' A part of her scoffs at the indignity of having to _explain_ , but this, perhaps, she owes to Emma, who foolishly pointed her gun at the winged monsters and saved Regina's life anyway.

Emma simply stares some more.

'You want your kid to be happy?' she says finally, her words laced with uncharacteristic bitterness. 'Then _stick around_ and make sure that he is.'

There is old anguish in her words, Regina sees with sudden clarity—a child's heartache at being left to fend for herself.

It should please her, this damnation of Snow White and her Shepherd Prince, but all she can think of is her father.

The grief that hits her is sudden and breathtaking, and she cannot stop the words that spill out of her mouth, pungent, 'Is that why you and your parents took him away from me and did everything in your power to _keep_ him away from me?'

'That's not—That wasn't—' Emma sputters, her features contorted in a combination of rage and yes, guilt, Regina can see it, plain as day. 'Seriously, _screw_ you,' she concludes, less woman and more angry adolescent.

When she storms out of their place of refuge, Regina makes no bid to hold her back.

She lies on her back and thinks of Daddy—remembers him, _truly_ , after a long, long time.

There was trembling hope in his voice as he promised that they could start a new life and be _happy_ again. There was gentle warmth in his touch, comfort; a certain tenderness that she has never stopped craving in the course of her long, miserable life.

She put her arms around him then, and did not believe him at all.

++++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Note:** My apologies for taking so much time with this one - I was traveling in the last month, which added to my general slowness. It has been lovely hearing from you, be it in the shape of comments or kudos/follows; writing in a new fandom is always nerve-wracking.


	6. After such knowledge

6.

  

Regina returns to wakefulness with the sound of stomping feet and the clatter of what sounds like firewood being dropped on the floor of the cave. The pain from her injuries have now subsided to a muted ache all over—or perhaps it's just the morose thoughts from earlier that have left her with a bruised heart.

It wouldn't be the first time. Those are the sort of injuries she has specialized in causing over the course of her long, long life. 

She squints to look up at Emma, who is now staring at her with a scowl on her face. The sun hangs low in the horizon, lighting her disheveled locks a fiery shade of red. The lines on her face are deeper in the shadows, giving her an untamed appearance that Regina can't quite look away from.

She expects an angry tirade about poisoned turnovers and other past sins, but what she gets instead is hands on hips and face scrunched up in moderate confusion. 'So let me get this straight,' Emma says, 'our kid made _me_ promise that I'd make sure you didn't die, and then he went and made _you_ promise that you'd get me back to him in one piece.'

Regina blinks in confusion. 'Yes,' she says slowly, unsure where this conversation is headed.

Emma says _our_ , as though they _haven't_ fought over who Henry belongs with since the day she and Emma laid their eyes on each other. As though Henry _hasn't_ already made his choice clear, turning away from the Evil Queen who thought she could be his mother.

Emma speaks with the grace of a victor assured of conquest.

The tide of bitterness is a familiar ache, no more overwhelming than the now-dull pain in her bruised body. She has often wondered what it would take to win at least once. To win only this once, because Henry is all that matters and there's little space in her dried-up heart for other… things, other _distractions_ in the path of her quest to find some semblance of a happy ending.

And then Emma smiles at her, brighter than the glow of the setting sun and entirely unexpected. 'Sneaky little thing, isn't he?' She nods at Regina, sharing a joke. About her son who is their son and… 'Looks like you raised a politician, Mayor Mills.'

'A prince must learn to negotiate,' Regina says weakly, not trusting her suddenly parched tongue to form more words that might hold some meaning.

'That fairytale crap again,' Emma says, shaking her head. She seats herself beside Regina in an ungainly thud. And Regina will certainly chastise Emma for dismissing an entire realm and all the heartbreak in it with such casual, careless words, but later, later, for now there's a firm hand reaching out to clasp her own, Emma's thumb painting aimless shapes on her heated skin. 

'I'd like to keep that promise,' Emma says softly. 'So a little more co-ordination the next time we have monster birds trying to eat us, okay?'

Regina does not wrench her hand away from Emma's grasp.

 

+

 

'How're you feeling?' Emma asks for the umpteenth time that evening. She looks a little sheepish, evidently at the realization that her intent staring at the haphazardly gathered firewood has not escaped Regina's attention.

It would be impossible to miss, Regina thinks, with more affection than she could ever imagine feeling for this confounding woman. 'You look like you need a little help, dear,' she says, not missing her slight shiver in the dusk.

'Uh, no.' Emma starts, looking much like a guilt-stricken Henry caught rummaging around in the refrigerator. 'I mean,' she says, almost shy, 'I thought I could try lighting it. By myself.'

'Go on.' Regina waves an expansive hand from her vantage position on the floor, not caring to mask her amusement. She finds she does not miss the fury that accompanied every failure on Emma's part to harness her wayward magic.

'I'm terrible at this,' Emma says in the near-dark, after yet another prolonged attempt at stirring her magic to life. 'There should be magic wands for beginners or something.'

The darkness allows for an easy smile; allows words of reproach that should not sound so fond. 'Wands are for lesser magical creatures. You don't need a wand to harness the magic that lies inside you. Focus.'

‘Maybe I’m just not built that way, ever considered that?’ Emma says, belligerent.

'Our presence here says otherwise, Miss Swan.' The darkness allows for an easy caress, fingers tangling together as Regina takes her hand.

'Spells 101, or _something_ that makes sense.'

'You're not in Hogwarts, Emma,' Regina says. 'Your magic is fuelled by emotion. The finest wand made of elder-wood and all the books in the library will not help you light the smallest fire if you don't learn to let your emotions flow in the right direction, so _focus_.'

Emma grasps her hand tighter in response.

Regina cannot bring herself to envision the eventual price she knows magic will extract at some point, but the warmth that blossoms in her chest when their shelter finally, _finally_ lights up has little to do with the now-blazing fire.

 

+

 

Regina sleeps in fits and starts. Uneasy shapes haunt her dreams, shadowy and indistinct. Emma's breath is warm on her cheek, an arm tossed carelessly across her stomach, and still Regina dreams, hearing voices that should not sound so true, so _close_ , and—

'Henry?' She ignores her aching muscles as she pushes herself to stand and _listen_ , because Henry, _Henry_ , it was Henry's voice calling out to her in a terrified wail. Regina has heard that voice in her nightmares, and to think she would hear it on this accursed place, to think he might have been displaced somehow and all by himself, all this while—

Regina cannot think. Her heart hammers as though it will break out of her ribcage, smashing her fragile bones with a mighty blow and lie writhing on the ground at her feet.

'Mom!' she hears him cry again, and then there's only madness, engulfing her in a fatal embrace.

She rushes outside on unsteady feet, blinking furiously at the sudden chill and the thick white curtain that drapes around her. She can only make out a few indistinct shapes—tufts of the long grass that dominates the terrain, bare branches of trees here and there. The flame on her palm flickers in the wind.

Regina walks.

She walks and she walks and does not heed the occasional stumble, the soft squelch of her boots treading into ankle-deep water or the cold that seeps in until her toes are numb. The wind coils around her and taunts her with whispers that sound like her son— _he needs her_ , _he_ **needs** _her_ —and Regina walks and follows the wind, parting through grass that grows taller and taller and thorny bushes that claw at her bare arms.

There’s movement at a distance—murmur of a boyish voice—and Regina urges herself onwards, onwards, heart beating swifter than her inept feet. She cannot wish herself to Henry, not when the elements have conspired against her and reduced her to near blindness in this dense wall of mist, but Regina will be steady and firm for her son. She who once bent the universe to her whim will not be deterred by obstacles such as this.  

‘Henry?’ she calls out, parting grass that reaches up to her eyes,  ‘Henry!’

She thinks she hears soft footsteps at a distance. Henry, her mind supplies, _Henry_. She has to reach Henry.

The ground beneath her feet grows treacherous with every step and Regina presses on, the ball of fire on her palm her only companion. There’s water sneaking up to her calves, now. The mud clings to her boots like an obstinate pest. _You’ll never find him_ , the wind singsongs in her ears, and surely it’s her fevered mind that’s conjuring images of a mocking imp. Regina presses on and ignores the imp, a nightmare from another life. She will find Henry.

The footsteps lead her on a merry chase, _so close_ one moment and gone the very next. It’s a mad game of hide and seek but Regina _knows_ this, has spent all her years chasing after nothing but elusive things. Regina walks on and finds herself in a clearing, tall grass giving way to marshy land and a sudden, eerie silence.

‘Henry?’ she cries out. ‘Henry!’ Her voice echoes in every direction. Even the foul wind has stopped murmuring inanities. It’s as though all elements have come to a standstill, waiting with bated breath for some unnamed disaster. 

A cautious step forward, and the earth comes alive, reaching for her ankle with greedy hands. She’s knee-deep in the mush before she can find it in herself to react, and then she’s sinking, sinking until she wills her magic to rise.

The earth spits her out with a vengeance. Regina lands with a harsh thud, the impact leaving her breathless and in pain.

She lies there, gasping, tears spilling out of her eyes unbidden.

 _You’ll never find him_ , she hears again, and this time it _is_ the imp’s voice, ringing out loud and clear, unmistakable. Regina isn’t afraid of Rumpel, she _isn’t_ , but she cannot help the fear that pools low in her belly at the moment.

 _What are you afraid of, my dear?_ says another voice, oh-so-gentle.  

There’s no mistaking that voice, either, not when it says _Come to your mother, Regina_ , dripping with love and honeyed concern. The voice is a lie, because her mother’s dead and gone, lying in her coffin in eternal, blessed silence. The voice is a lie, and Regina is a fool, letting her fool heart tell her that Henry would ever ask for her again.

Henry is in Storybrooke. Henry is _safe_. Henry has no use for her theatrics, and Regina’s on her own.

The island’s magic has tormented her since the moment she opened her eyes on that accursed beach in the company of Emma Swan. Now, she supposes, it has put her in her place—a fitting end for an Evil Queen who lost her way and wandered down the wrong path, trapped in a hell of her own making.

She makes no effort to stop the tears. There isn’t anyone who might see.

 

++++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for this very late update. I'm not a quick writer on the best of days, and I found myself distracted by real life and baby fic. 
> 
> Your feedback, as always, is adored.

**Author's Note:**

> This was an exercise to grasp Regina's voice that sort of got away from me. I'm not a very prolific or quick writer, but I'm breaking my own no WIPs rule in the hope of getting back into the habit of writing. The title is from Elizabeth Bishop, 'I am in need of music': _I am in need of music that would flow/Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,/Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,/With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow._


End file.
